In The Wake of Night
by DreamsOfPari
Summary: John never came home and Sherlock goes out to look for him, fearing the worst. No longer a two-shot. (Edited chapter 4 so it's not as horrible)
1. Chapter 1

**In The Wake of Night**

Night had fallen hours ago and all of London's inhabitants were safely tucked away in their homes. Beds comfortable and warm, offering protection from the bitter temperature outside. A light but steady rain had begun, thoroughly saturating every surface.

The occasional taxi breaking the stillness for a moment. With delicate stars above, the sleepy city put off an air of calm and peacefulness. London's citizens were all quietly dreaming—except one.

A certain consulting detective held no acceptance for ideal hours of sleep. Though this night was different, it posed much more danger. Tonight was life or death, no cause for laughter. For the detective, tonight was tinted with fear and an underlying sense of urgency.

Sherlock leapt over a wooden crate, it toppled over, crashing and disturbing the quiet. His breaths came out in short puffs as he raced through London's alleys, the only evidence of his passing were the echoes of his pounding footsteps on the cobblestones. The cold air ripped through his lungs, burning the back of his throat.

As Sherlock sailed across the empty street, the ever-present black coat billowed out behind him. The rain had made the ground slick, and as the detective rounded a corner he skidded and halted so as not to completely fall over. Propelling himself forward once again, he pushed his body, ignoring the pain.

Another turn and down another street. The detective didn't know exactly where he was headed, and this fact greatly bothered him, but still he ran.

Sherlock wasn't paying attention to his feet; he had eyes only for up ahead, scanning for the only thing he truly couldn't live without. So it was no wonder that the next moment he was sent sprawling on the wet ground, skinning his hands and tearing the designer material of his clothes.

Sherlock looked up from his position on the ground and his speeding heart skipped a few beats. His eyes wide and for an impossibly long second, the detective stopped breathing altogether.

"John."


	2. Chapter 2

_(JohnPOV)_

Braving a war destroyed battlefield? No problem. Getting shot? Why not, isn't that what soldiers do? Living with a high functioning sociopath? Yolo. Playing with Chinese mobsters and being threatened by the British government? I can handle it.

Getting the milk without a row with the chip and pin machine? Thoroughly impossible.

Which is why, at the moment, I am walking in the dead of night—with no milk mind you—and not a soul around. The streets are empty save for the occasional stranded cat. Not even the cabbies seem to be out. It's as if all of London decided to go to sleep at the same time. Quickening my pace, my foot falls echoed in the stillness. I'm fairly sure this is the point in the movie where the monster jumps out and attacks the beloved characters. A shiver runs down my spine, not entirely from the cold weather.

With only two blocks left until Baker Street, I rounded the corner, and that's when it happened.

xoxo

Thick fingers gripped my shoulder from behind and roughly yanked back. I halted and the hand turned me around. _No, no, no…Why did I leave my gun at home? Oh yeah. Stupid milk. Like I said earlier, LIVING WITH THAT GIT IS IMPOSSIBLE. _

I was met with the face of a large man with a bushy moustache. His eyes were masked by a pair of dark sunglasses and a cotton beanie covered most of his head.

There was a pause before he spoke, his voice gruff and unpleasant, South American accent, almost Spanish. "Are you Dr. Watson?"

I frowned a bit and tried to shrug out of his grip without attracting his attention. Better said than done, as his grip only tightened. "That depends on who's asking." The man nodded to himself and reached into his pocket. _Oh God, he has a gun. No, a knife. No wait, he has…a cell phone? _The man brought his mobile to his lips and spoke into the receiver in another language. Possibly Spanish, but as I had dropped out of that particular course first year of uni, I wasn't entirely sure.

He snapped the mobile shut and put it back in his pocket. "You are to come with me." My protests died when he struck me in the back of the head. The blow blinded me for a few seconds, but that was enough for the mustached man to reach into my own jacket pocket and slide out my mobile.

Before I knew what was happening he had thrown the stolen cell into the nearest garbage bin. My speech was a bit slurred and sluggish when I spoke next "Hey…you're gonna…pay for my replacement." In response, the man only pushed me forward until I began walking. He followed close behind; his thick fingers a constant pressure. At least he chose my good shoulder, though I have a feeling if he knew the other was bad, he'd have gripped that one.

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The alley we ended up in was a dead end. There were no doors or windows in the walls on either side. We walked all the way to the end and he turned me around once again. He stepped back and held out his hand expectantly. I could only stare at him blankly.

He frowned and pushed his hand closer to my face. I shook my head helplessly. "I don't know what you want." His eyes hardened and his lips pressed into a thin line. "That's not what Moriarty tells me." His accent was more pronounced when he spoke the much-hated name.

"And what does Moriarty claim I have for you?"

"The pendant."

"I'm sorry? What pendant? Whatever it is, I don't have it. Sorry." The Spanish man raised his hand and brought it back across my cheek. _Bruises. There will definitely be bruises after this. _The sting left behind was uncomfortable and I could already feel the redness forming.

"Of course you have it. The opal snake of Guadalupé. You stole the necklace from my museum and then sold the chain, keeping the pendant for yourself. Moriarty has told me the whole story. You cannot fool me _Doctor Watson_." Realization dawned on me and I shook my head at the man before me, who was already threatening to strike again.

"Had it ever occurred to you that Moriarty is a lying scum? He'll tell you anything you want to hear, truth or not. You can't trust—" I was cut off by a heavy hand falling on my cheek again, this time close enough to my eye that the lid became swollen and closed. _Dammit. Black eyes are incredibly unattractive._

"Lies! You are the liar! Liar and thief!" Another slap. I am not going to take anymore of this. With one hand firmly on my shoulder, the mustached man curled his other fingers into a fist. As his hand came flying toward me, I sidestepped enough so that he caught my ear. _Again, Dammit! _

I grabbed his wrist and twisted back, forcing him to turn away from me and toward the street. He struggled and protested as I pushed him toward the ground. The whole while my eye throbbing and my cheek stinging, reminding me why I was now putting a knee in his back. With both of the mustached man's arms twisted around, I leant down to speak in his ear. But before I could say anything, another blow hit me in the neck. I lost my grip and fell sideways.

Other hands reached down to pick up the Spanish man and dust him off. From my spot on the ground, I could see at least three extra pairs of feet. These additions held no mercy for my prone body, and soon I was bloodied and bruised, curled up in the fetal position.

The mustached man stood by the whole time as his gang "punished me until I gave them the pendant." I gave up a while ago trying to convince them I didn't know anything about it.

Just as I felt consciousness start to slip away, the man's mobile rang. He answered immediately and spoke in supposed Spanish. There was a pause, and I could feel his hidden gaze on my battered form. He barked out what sounded like an order and the extra feet stopped and stepped away. I shuddered out a painful breath. My voice was weak and not at all intimidating, but the significance was clear enough, "I told you so."

The man said something to one of his men and a moment later a hand grabbed my wrist and pulled me none too nicely to one side of the alley, then promptly let go.

With once last glance, the mustached man left, his gang following. I watched with a blurry eye as they briskly turned left and out of sight. As soon as they were gone, my head fell back and I let the sleepy night surround me in much welcomed darkness.


	3. Chapter 3

_(Back to SherlockPOV)_

John, _my _John, who was merely supposed to go out for milk, was currently a dirty, bloody, crumpled heap. He was curled up on the right side of the alley, and by the looks of it, out cold. _Oh John, what did they do to you? _

Scrambling up, I rushed over to his side. I could see my hands trembling as I ran them over his body. _So many bruises… _After the moment of pure horror had passed, my mind dove head first with deductions.

_Residue from rubber soles, much scuffling—kicking. Four—no three assailants. A fourth party stood on the left. No enter or exit wound from bullet. No stab marks. I.e. no external weapon used. Circular bruising around wrist—manhandled aside from beating. No cell phone—stolen, evident from slight tear in seams of pocket—unable to call for backup. No obvious signs of internal bleeding—further investigation later. Short, shallow breaths—heavily bruised chest, location alarmingly near lungs. Hospital—immediately._

I placed my hands of either side of John's face and leaned in close. I lifted one of his eyelids. _Pupil unresponsive. _"John you have to wake up. Now. Falling asleep on a concussion often proves fatal. John. John. _John!_"

Not good. Definitely _not good._ I sat back and pulled out my mobile, quickly dialing 999.

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At the hospital, John was rushed to the A&E. When I started to follow, a nurse blocked the path. "I'm sorry sir. You're not allowed past this point. Please wait in the proper waiting room."

"No. I'm coming—"

But she had already run down the corridor, and the nurse—and John—disappeared around the corner.


	4. John's Dream

_(John)_

The man with course purple hair sighed, running his stiff fingers through it. His thin jumper did not quite keep out the late autumn temperature. Above him, the chilly wind brought with it schools of baby bubbles that tickled one's nose when they popped. It was a quarter past seven and the sun had already started its desent, staining the sky with neon rays.

_Where is he?! Sherlock should be here already! _He was currently waiting for said man on a bench in the now-deserted park. The purple haired one sighed yet again. _This really is ridiculous. _

Across the street, a young woman was walking her green doggite, the little creature's trident shaped tail happily swinging back and forth. But other than the quickly disappearing pair, John was alone.

The man stood up, revealing his shorter stature. Just as he was about to take a step, another man (this one wearing a dark orange great-coat and a brown turtle neck, with curly beach blonde hair topping a head with strikingly handsome features) came running into view—a trail of newly hatched chiclets following close on his heels. Even from this distance, John could see the chiclets' tiny-but-sharp-as-any teeth snapping at the blonde's feet.

A slow smile crept its way onto the purple-haired man's face. Sherlock was fast approaching and John's smile only grew as the chiclet in front finally got a hold of the taller's black—and expensive, they cost nearly a hundred poneks—trousers and held on for dear life. Sherlock glanced down and tried shaking off the chiclet—with no success.

_I suppose I should help him now… _John let out a series of sharp, piercing whistles and the chiclet detached itself from Sherlock's trouser leg. The little ball of feathers and teeth rolled into his brothers, looking much like a bowling ball tumbling down into a bunch of pins. The blonde stopped next to John, panting and resting his pale hands of his hips.

"I had…everything…under control John."

John rolled his eyes and another easy smile graced his lips. "Right."

Sherlock only grinned at his partner, soft lips stretching. John took out his mobile and dialed animal control, informing the operator about the now-disoriented chiclets.

After the quick call, John and Sherlock started walking to their intended destination. (A small café that their friend, Molly Hooper, was performing at. Molly was an extremely talented—and bubbly—violinist).

xoxo

John and Sherlock were giggling like two schools girls when they arrived at the café. And for once, Sherlock paid no attention to the fact that his clothing was not in a state of perfection (there were snags and a few holes in the ankle of his trousers from the chiclet). Not that John would have pointed it out, that would only result in them having to go all the way back to their condo (highrise and with one of the best views in all London).

A waiter with a kind face and two sets of arms brought them to a small bistro-like table right in front of the stage (which was simply a cleared space on the patio) and asked the duo if they would like anything to drink. After John ordered an extra-extra large cuppa and Sherlock ordered a glass of water (_exactly two cubes of ice sir, thank-you_. _Oh, and may as well add a wedge of límon_), the waiter left.

The space was quickly filling with people. Some eager to hear the music, some coming on a whim drawn by the welcoming stone café, and others, like John and Sherlock, came to see a few of their friends play. The atmosphere in the back patio area was practically buzzing with conversation and an overall sense of delight and contentment.

"John." The short purple-haired man turned his attention to Sherlock.

"Yes?"

"If you would be so kind as to wake up now, I would be greatly obliged." John raised an eyebrow at this.

"Sherlock…I am awake." The blonde scoffed and waved a hand vaguely in the air.

"Obviously not John. Look at you. For once, I don't feel the need to hurl at your choice of clothing. You actually match!" Before John could reply, Molly walked out on the makeshift stage. The gathered crowd quieted as she smiled brightly at her audience, a rosy pink glow surrounding her. John and Sherlock both turned toward her as she began to play.

xoxo

Halfway through the second song, John felt a nudge on his shin and looked up to see an expectant Sherlock. John gave an exasperated huff.

"Yes Sherlock?" John whispered. The tall man rolled his eyes at John's whispered voice but replied in a hushed tone all the same.

"John, you have had ample time to consider my request." John's eyebrows scrunched together.

"What request?" Sherlock's whispered reply was drowned out as Molly's song came to an end and the crowd exploded in applause. Sherlock waited for the clapping to drift to an end before he tried again.

"I—" Sherlock closed his mouth all of sudden, nearly biting his own tongue. His gray eyes widened impossibly large. Molly's violin playing sounded far away, just soft fuzz in the background.

John was beyond confused, and he thought he had never been more confused in his life until thin spirals of color started to spin out from behind Sherlock's form. On the end of the confetti-like spirals were the bubbles that had floated in the wind earlier. They were playful and shiny and bobbed up and down in a trail behind each spiral of color. John's attention was entirely focused on the bubbles and spirals. Everything else started to faded away. Black surrounded the edges of his vision and pretty soon even Sherlock completely disappeared.

Somewhere off to his right, John heard a voice that sounded a lot like Sherlock's but he wasn't entirely sure. The voice was calling his name. A distant _John, John, John _floating through his ears. His shook the words away, instead focusing his attention once again on the spirals and trails of bubbles.

Now the voice was demanding that John wake up. And again John ignored the voice.

It was only when the voice of which he assumed was Sherlock's softly plead with John to not leave him, that John stopped staring at the all-consuming colors. John perked his head to the side and listened, bubbles temporarily forgotten.

A spot of white light appeared somewhere in the middle of the colors, completely immobile. Gradually the spot enlarged. John snapped back to the white light when it became as big as his fist, just floating amidst the chaotic spirals. John no longer heard the voice, everything became muted and John felt as if his ears were encased in soft clouds.

All of sudden, the white flared and exploded. Within seconds, John's whole vision was a pure white, blinding light. His eyes watered and the force of the light's explosion blew his purple hair back, mussing it up to the point where there was no hope to straighten it back. All John could see was the white, and then just as quickly as it came, the white was gone. All of it vanished and then there was nothing.


	5. Chapter 5

_(3__rd__ person)_

Two men, one with dark curly hair, the other with a shag of blonde, were in the room. The taller man, the one with dark hair, was bent over the latter, who was lying down, sheathed in white. The small hospital room smelt of sterilizer and bleach. Blinking, the taller man, Sherlock was his name, looked up from his crouched position by the bed. The man lying down, John, was comatose and showed no signs of waking up.

Tears streaks were evident on Sherlock's cheeks; his once vibrant and energetic eyes were now but two dull spots of gray. Sherlock clutched John's hand in his own slender one. He twined their fingers together, and commanded then pled with John to wake up. None of which worked of course. The shorter man remained still, unresponsive.

The sound of Sherlock's heart breaking was nearly audible in the quite room. But unwilling to leave his companion's side, the raven stayed.

It would be two more days of tortuous waiting and many more tears before Sherlock could relax again. And until then, the taller man would not eat or sleep, not dare leave that small hospital room.

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John awoke with a gasp.

His small outburst immediately caught the attention of the curly haired man, who had yet to untangle their hands. John's head rolled over to the right to see what had trapped his arm. He was met with a pale face, eyes wide and a soft mouth slightly agape. _Sherlock. _A smile made its way onto the blonde's face. His mouth opened and when he spoke, his voice was hoarse but the bewilderment was clear as day.

"That…was trippy." _Psychedelic. _John grinned up at nothing, and then remembering he was not alone, turned back to Sherlock, who by this time had closed his mouth and was smiling too, a few fresh tears forming at the corners of his eyes.

"John…I…I thought I lost you." John's grin softened into a gentle smile.

"It's gonna take more than a few thugs to take me away from you." The taller man stood up then, untwining their fingers only to cup the blonde's head.

"Agreed." Sherlock bent down, and gently rested his lips on John's own.


End file.
